


In the rhythms of righting the world...

by LittleWrenLost



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4038025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWrenLost/pseuds/LittleWrenLost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara Emée DuBois has moved to Paris to begin her new life. Little does she know just how quickly she will turn the world of our 4 musketeers upside down too...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic, so please do leave feedback/comments so that I can weave that in to my writing. Many thanks!

Clara stood, lit by the early morning light in the lobby of her new home, hands resting gently on her hips, surveying the precariously placed pile of trunks and cases which needed to be unpacked and arranged in order to create some semblance of the image that she held in her minds eye of this, her place of new beginning. 

As she gazed around her, a smile rose up from within, making its way first to her eyes, and then to her lips. ‘This is going to be good,’ she thinks, ‘this is going to be so good.’

///

Clara Emée DuBois stood a little over 5 feet high in her stocking clad feet, although when she piled the tumbling copper curls that graced her head up into its usual style, with those defiantly curling tendrils that constantly fought for escape and framed her face, she mused that she could appear to be a couple of inches taller. At least. 

Although, her height bore little matter to the power of the presence that she exuded whenever she walked in to a room. With eyes that were flecked with gold, but seemed to shift in shades of blue to green, depending on her particular temperament in each moment, a nose that was just the right side of seeming button-like, and a particular set to her jaw which suggested that, should you try to best her, you would lose, she embodied a sense of purpose and poise that radiated outward to all who stood near. 

The journey to her new residence, Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Colombier, was one beset with the kind of wrestlings that would have seen a lesser woman relent and slip in to her assigned place within proper society. The youngest child of a wealthy silver merchant who by warrant of marriage had found himself a member of the lesser nobility, Clara had led a relatively quiet and privileged life in Orléans, taking to her education with a sharp mind and wit which, from a young age, had excelled that of her teachers - and thus provided both her parents and those charged with the building of her knowledge with an ever growing frustration. Clara reasoned that there were not enough books in all of the world to satisfy her curiosity for knowledge, and voraciously read every tome that she could lay her delicate hands on, from poetry to social commentary and every form of literature that came hot from the printing presses of Paris. 

Her father surmised that, from the age of 17 upwards, her refusal to be wed to any of the ‘addled minded dolts’, as she called them, who were paraded in front of her was as a result of her being ‘ruined’ by knowledge. And, whilst he settled himself to a certain degree of resignation that his youngest might be found to be ‘too much to handle’ by any potential suitor from her social ranking, he still desired for her to be matched, and so contacted his elder brother Pierre who lived as a bachelor in Paris and was highly regarded as one of the finest watch makers in the city, as well as doting on his fiery and unconventional niece. 

Pierre, however, having lived an outrageously full existence as a delighted bachelor, was having none of his brothers whining, and told him firmly to stow away his own desires for the outworking of Clara’s matrimonial life – that she would be taken care of, would want for nothing, and therefore should not be subjected to a marriage of convenience to merely appease his own sense of propriety. 

The degree to which Pierre doted on Clara only became apparent some 7 years later, upon his quiet and gentle death, when it transpired that, in his will, he had left his 3 bedroomed town house in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, Paris, and the not unconsiderable wealth amassed from the sale of his business, to none other than one Mademoiselle Clara Emée DuBois.

It took approximately 3 months of endless conversation, negotiation, and a quite frankly astounding battle of wills, to reach some agreement on an acceptable arrangement by which Clara would be allowed to move to Paris. As a single woman of 24, her parents feared that it would be the final nail in the coffin of her reputation, leaving her destined for perpetual spinsterhood. But Clara was relentless in her pursuit of freedom from the pedestrian life offered to her by Orléans, and an agreement was reached which would see her travel to the city to begin a new life accompanied by her only concession to her parents – one of her favourite servants, the housekeeper Nancy. 

Clara and Nancy had quietly agreed the running of the new Parisian house before leaving Orléans – the house would have a minimal staff, in much the same manner as inhabited by her uncle: with Nancy overseeing the house, a scullery maid for kitchen work and a house maid for cleaning. Day labourers would maintain the small courtyard that led directly on the street and undertake any work needed within the property. Clara would truly be the mistress of her own domain. 

And so, the adventure began.

 

///

It took only a few hours of that first morning for the small staff of Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Colombier to unpack the cases and trunks which contained Clara’s belongings – which, due to the already furnished nature of the house, mainly consisted of clothing, a few trinkets, and a vast quantity of books. 

Clara was determined that she should get a sense of the neighborhood in which she was to make her new life and so, as the last cases were unpacked, and at the light protest of Nancy, she made her way out on to the street, heading towards the small market place that they had driven through in the earlier breaking hours of the day.

///

‘Patrol duty. Again.’ mumbled Aramis. ‘I must have behaved sorely in a past existence to warrant yet another day of Patrol Duty. Where is the excitement, the adventure, the danger?! At least if we had patrol duty at the palace with Porthos and D’artagnan we would get to admire the beauty of the ladies of the court.’ 

Athos, giving one of his more stellar side-eye glances to his erstwhile companion, simply sighed and flatly stated, ‘My dear Aramis, lest you forget, this is a musketeer’s duty also. The safety and harmony of Paris is in our very well trained and capable hands. Although, if what I heard being banded about the Garrison this morning regarding your escapades last evening after you had left the tavern are true, I think that ‘harmony’ might not be something best suited to being left in the hands of the man seen scrambling from the window of a certain home upon the untimely arrival of the certain husband of a certain lady.’

Aramis looked across at Athos, his sheepish gaze framed perfectly underneath the rim of his hat. ‘Athos, my friend. How many times must I tell you, a Musketeer does not kiss and tell. In fact, last night was interrupted in such an untimely manner that this particular musketeer did not even get to ‘kiss’, let alone do anything else that could be told of. So, now, with your piqued curiosity sated, shall we take another turn around this most dangerous of Parisian Market places?’

///

Clara meandered through the stalls, taking in the sights and sounds of the walkways that seemed to encompass all of Parisian life in microcosm - from the well dressed ladies out shopping with their servants trailing behind them, to the handsome musketeers taking turns around the edge of the courtyard, to those on their way to more important places - hurrying with their heads down, oblivious to the thieves and cut-purses which used the pre-occupied nature of their targets as the perfect foil for their crimes, all the way down to the small group of street urchins lazing against one of the colonnades, eying up the wares on the tables.

As she stopped to breathe in the air and take a moment to allow the excitement of this new season of life to catch up with her, she saw one of the young urchins sidle across in front of her to the vegetable stand laden with apples, carrots and all manner of healthy wares. He was trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, and almost seemed to be whistling a tune whilst looking in every direction but that of his intended next meal. 

‘At least he’s attempting to steal something healthy,’ Clara mused, turning to watch the scene unfold in front of her. She wished the boy well - he looked to be about only ten years old: tired and cold, and like he’d seen neither water or food that was hot in too long a time for his short years. 

As he sauntered past the edge of the stall, he looked as though he might indeed make his mark, but, as his hand darted out from beneath his torn shirt sleeves towards his intended prize, it transpired that the stall holder – a portly and gruff man who by appearances would seem to prefer red wine and rich meats to the vegetables he himself sold – was not so unaware of the whistling young urchin as might have first appeared, and as quickly as the boys hand darted out the stallholders arm did too, and soon found itself full of a squirming, not so happy young boy, who was promptly cuffed around the head with a promise of more from where that came. 

It was as she saw the stall-holder reach for his short, but brutal, stranded whip, that Clara was spurred in to action. ‘This is not acceptable’, she thought, ‘not acceptable at all.’

///

Aramis and Athos heard the yells from across the market place and turned just in time to see the young lad being hauled around a table laden with fruit and vegetables by a very irate and red-faced man. 

‘So much for a peaceful day,’ said Athos, as the musketeers sped their way through the crowd that gathered around the spectacle created by this street urchin, who appeared to be surprisingly strong for his age. 

Aramis yelled in indignation and sped up his pace as he saw the stall holder lift up his whip and strike the boy soundly across the back – an action which tore the lad’s already worn short from his frame, leaving unsightly red weals that oozed with blood in its wake. 

He launched through the last of the gathered crowd as the whip was lifted for a second time, but his pace did not allow him to reach the scene before a small figure, head topped with a mass of tumbling red curls, darted across his path and launched itself at the boy, ensuring that the whip did not meet its intended target, but rather her own slight form - which crumbled spectacularly under the might of the studded leather, as the baying crowd were silenced, and the only sound that remained was Clara’s pained gasp as she hit the floor…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for clarity, this is set after D'artagnan's commission but before any kind of significant Annamis action. In fact, there won't be any of that kind of business because, whilst we all love a bit of forbidden romance, why should the Queen have all the fun?!

…the baying crowd were silenced, and the only sound that remained was Clara’s pained gasp as she hit the floor… 

///

‘Breathe, Clara, just breathe’ she intoned to herself in her mind, her eyes closed, awareness trying to right itself to the cobbled street that she now lay upon, but finding herself unable to comprehend anything other than the burn of the lashes welted across her back and the weight of the young boy that she now held in her arms. 

‘Breathe, Clara, just breathe.’

As the immediacy of the pain subsided, she felt gently calloused hands meet her shoulders, turning her and coaxing the weight of the lad from her, passing him over to waiting arms. 

‘Breathing is good. Breathing is very good. I highly recommend breathing,’ spoke a soft voice wryly in her ear, as nimble fingers ghosted over her head and neck, seeming to check for hidden injury.

‘Now,’ continued the voice, dropping in volume as though to shut out the ears of the gathered crowd and afford her some privacy, ‘I am assuming that you, Madame, are Clara, and that therefore your advice regarding the life sustaining act of inhaling and exhaling air is not directed at either our young friend here, whom in which case you have somewhat blindly mistaken for a maiden, or at some phantom which has appeared as a result of the pain caused by your heroic, but unquestionably risky actions?’

Clara grimaced inwardly, and acquiesced with a small movement of her head. 

‘Good. Now, can you open your eyes for me, Clara?’ 

Her eyes snapped open to meet the gentle yet intense, dark eyed gaze of a musketeer, his hands now resting gently on her shoulders as though to reassure himself of the fact that her chest was indeed rising and falling and that she was obeying her own instructions.

‘Oh, well done Clara,’ she thought, gazing up numbly in to the face of her helper, this time making sure that the words did not meet her lips and find voice, ‘He probably thinks that you’re a lunatic. First you leap of your own volition in front of an oncoming whipping, and then you talk to yourself in the manner of an addled minded simpleton who should be escorted at all times, or at very least transported in a gently padded carriage in order to avoid inadvertently injuring herself. Brilliant first impression. Really, well done.’

Aramis looked at her, concern creeping over his features and his hands moving softly towards her head once more. He hadn’t felt the tell-tale result of any blow which would cause the kind of confusion that he was seeing written across her face, but maybe he had missed something through the tangle of copper curls that framed his current patient’s delicate green, no, wait, blue eyed visage...

‘Ahem…’

A dry voice from above caused Aramis to pause from his murmurings and ministrations and he looked up to see Athos, stood with his arms placed lightly on the shoulders of a trembling young boy.

With his attention diverted for long enough to allow Clara to move away from his insistent hands, Aramis looked around to take in the situation that they found themselves in… 

The whip-laden stall holder was engaged to their left, gesticulating wildly to any of those who remained in the crowd that would listen, obviously telling tale of an errant thief and a crazy woman, protesting that he was only protecting his wares. 

The young lad held under Athos’ hands looked as though he might pass out from the stress, exhaustion, confusion and pain of the event at any moment, and the only thing preventing him from doing so seemed to be Athos’ form standing sturdily at his back.

And Clara, well, Clara was scrambling indelicately to her feet, moving towards the lad for whom she had taken the raised blow of the corded leather. 

Aramis rose from the cobbled street and was at her side within moments, as she unsteadily reached the boy and turned her head to say loudly in the direction of the stall-holder, ‘Shame on you Monsieur. Shame on you indeed, whipping a young boy who is obviously desperate for food.’ 

As she took in the full extent of the lad’s current state, her temper flared within her and she moved towards the stall holder, arm raised and seemingly intent on meeting out with the flat of her hand across his cheek some semblance of the pain which he had caused the child with his whip.

Athos quickly handed the boy off to Aramis, who took no time in turning the boy around to begin examining the wounds on his back, and rapidly strode the space between them, taking her raised arm in his hand and softly speaking in to her ear, suggesting that, ‘maybe now is not the time for vengeance Madame. There is a crowd gathered, and I warrant that a more diplomatic solution may be found once the heat of both this moment, and the marks on your back, have cooled slightly.’

Clara lowered her arm, and turned to look at Athos. ‘Yes. Maybe, maybe you are correct Monsieur,’ she stuttered, the adrenaline rush from the encounter receding from her body like the vanishing tide. 

As Athos turned her back towards Aramis and the boy, she was once more reminded of the purpose behind her erstwhile actions and moved to gently embrace the child. 

Aramis lifted his hands from the work of exploring the extent of the damage upon the boys back as Clara turned him and tilted his downcast face to look up in to hers. 

‘Hello young man,’ she said, with a care and tenderness that he appeared to physically lean in to. ‘My name is Clara, and today is my first day in Paris. You have made that day a somewhat eventful one, beyond what I would have imagined. Now, can you tell me your name?’ 

The boy met her gaze, and seemed to draw courage from the kindness that he saw in her eyes. ‘Timothée,’ he said. ‘Or Timmy. That’s what my Maman used to call me.’

Aramis and Athos looked on as Clara conversed with him. ‘Well, Timmy it is then. Now, I think that we had better take you back to my new house where we can clean you up and dress those wounds, and see if we can find you a new shirt to wear and maybe something to fill your belly that you don’t have to steal. You can be the first house guest of Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Columbier!’ 

She raised her head to thank the Musketeers, realising that she hadn’t even found out their names, the action causing her to sway slightly where she stood. 

She took a steadying breath. ‘Thank you, kind Monsieur’s, for your timely assistance. We will be leaving now but, before we do, may I enquire after the names of my able helpers, given that you have both mine and Timmy’s, and we are now at a disadvantage.’

Aramis examined her through half closed lids, as though she might indeed be suffering from that head injury that he had previously been fearful of, and moved closer in case her gentle swaying turned in to something more likely to land her at his feet on the cobbles once more. 

‘My name is Aramis, of the Kings Musketeers, and this is Athos, also of the Kings Musketeers. With due respect Madame, it is not just young Timothée, sorry – Timmy, here that is need of attention. I do not need to remind you that you, yourself, were subject to the same lashing that he received, and that you have yet to allow me to examine your wounds, much less tend to them. Please, allow us to escort you home and make sure that you have everything that you require for a speedy recovery. If today is, as you say, your first day in Paris, I cannot imagine that this is the kind of welcome that you were hoping for from our fair city, and we would like to mitigate your impressions so that they are more favourable.’

Clara heard Athos snort gently behind her, and she drew herself up to her full height, trying not to grimace at the pain that coursed across her exposed back and shoulders. 

‘Do you always use a thousand words when fifty will do Monsieur?’ She said, defiantly. ‘And, also, it is not Madame, it is Mademoiselle. Were you to ask me, rather than assume, I think that you would find that my injuries are not nearly so grievous as you protest. I thank you for your kindness, but I think that I am more than capable of escorting young Timmy here along the few streets to my home, and warrant that the action of bathing and dressing his wounds before providing him with some nourishment will not cause me to expire with any degree of immediacy.’

Athos’ snort upon hearing her speech was less gentle this time, and she set her jaw as she turned to meet his gaze - the action of which caused Clara to sway a little more than she had anticipated.

She inwardly cursed, or at least she hoped that it was inwardly, as her vision blurred, and her traitorous legs gave way beneath her as she felt the lithe hands of the annoyingly-many-worded Musketeer gently break her fall and lift her into his arms, taking care not to further disturb her wounds.

The last thing that she heard before the darkness took her completely was his voice as he said, with vague amusement: ‘Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Columbier, wasn’t it young man?! Right then, we’d better get Mademoiselle Clara here home and sort both of you out, preferably before she wakes to tell me once more that she is not injured in the slightest. Athos, bring Timmy would you...’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As this is my first fanfic, any feedback or input would be much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
